


Of Corpse I Can

by CravenWyvern



Series: Previously Punned [6]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: A Bird Is Involved, Beefalo - Freeform, Cannibalism, Claws, Dead Body, Gen, Gore, Immortality, Kind of AU, Lots of Guess Work Here, Mentions of THEM - Freeform, Neither do I, Or Alternate Immortal Body Cannibalism, Or How To Eat It Properly, Organs, Self-Cannibalism, Starvation, Touchstone is mentioned, Very Descriptive Gore, Wilson Doesn't Know How To Dissect The Human Body, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9524951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Wilson P. Higgsbury has an incredibly bad winter and has to eventually resort to something he never thought he'd have to do.He hopes he never has to do it again.





	

Wilson really, really didn’t want to do this.

But this winter was being especially harsh, even with all his preparing, all his hard work, everything he's done to survive. It only took a few weeks, for the snow to get thick and the air to reach below zero temperatures, and to compound his ill luck a giant took the time to destroy his camp. He was lucky enough to get away, take only the bare necessities, to release his bird before the cage was crushed.

The poor little thing was still following him, puffed up and twittering quietly whenever it rested in a nearby tree. The others of its kind have flown off, to better places, and it stayed near him even with its new found freedom. Freezing in the icy winds was its fate if it left the few fires he made, and Wilson tried to split whatever food he could find for it. If the little creature survived with him to the spring, he'd be very glad.

But that was looking less and less hopeful. 

His food supplies were gone, emptied a week or so ago, and he had started to feel the effects of it as time wore on. The bird looked miserable, but followed him diligently, straying closer and closer to his fire but still out of his reach. It was still wild, still did not let him touch it, but its company was better than nothing as he slowly starved.

The lack of food had quickly gotten too much. No matter what he did, he had a better chance than staying curled up next to his fire, and Wilson had taken that chance, a slight hope that fate was in his favor, that he'd get lucky.

This venture did not work out, and now that he was back in the snow covered plains, he knew why. The beefalo herds had gathered into one, huddled for warmth, a few calves here or there darting between the massive adults, their calls echoing in the silence of the cold and snow. If he looked hard enough, squinted in the dull lighting and walked closer, he could have probably made out the one that he had tried to hunt.

It had been a desperate measure, because he needed the warmth, he needed the food, no matter his dislike of meat, no matter how it might give him a stomach ache; it was the last effort he could make, before his strength would leave him to die in the snow.

Trudging through the icy grasses, keeping a wary eye on the herd, Wilson steeled himself for what he'd find. The beefalo watched him suspiciously, remembering him maybe, but didn’t make any moves toward him as he crossed the field. The buzz of the flies, over manure and furry hides, was dulled by the snow, the smell of the place caught under ice, but the beefalos scavenging and scratching left cold mud tracks and holes, dirtied snow scattered about.

The thing he was looking for was there, surrounded by frozen mud and trampled grass, the hissing of the flies intensified as they tried to find warm places to hide.

…There was a lot more blood than he had thought there would be. The shaggy creatures had no mercy for him, the person trying to hurt one of their children, and the damage on his previous body was very…unwholesome.

The sight of his corpse was something he never really wanted to look at, something he'd have never thought he would have to see, and the world wobbled for a second as he took an unsteady step back. Closing his eyes, claws over his mouth and just taking a moment to breath, his heart thudding heavy in his chest, Wilson shook his head and tried once more to move closer. 

It was another desperate attempt. He had been very, very lucky to have that stone so close to his temporary camp, but when he had come back, heart hammering in his throat and feeling very, very sick, it didn’t take long to remember that he had no food. There was nothing else he could do, no other option besides infinite death, and he really, really didn’t want to die again. If he gave up, then the bird would die as well, and that felt like enough motivation to try again.

No more beefalo dreams, however. They were too much for him right now, too many in the area and with no armor or weapons, Wilson stood no chance. His last attempt had taught him that.

All he had left was…something he had never thought he'd have to resort to.

Even with the damage from the trampling and goring, his body was still in a somewhat single piece. Twisted and bloodied, broken skin and fractured bones, face almost unrecognizable and limbs curled in unnatural poses, but it still looked…salvageable.

Grating his teeth, narrowing his eyes and staring down at his corpse, Wilson could feel the tendril of revulsion twined in his chest, disgust turning his stomach, some sort of heavy knot lodged in his throat and curdling his senses. The world was faded out, black slithers on the edges, and he just really did not want to get closer, did not want to look more, did not want to do this at all-

But he had no choice. This, or death.

Slowly, trying to keep himself from smelling the stink in the air, the buzzing of the flies in his ears, Wilson leaned down and tried to grasp the twisted arms of his former body. The claws were hooked, some disjointed and missing, and he turned his gaze away from that, tightening his grip around frozen wrists and taking an unsteady step back. The skin was very, very cold, sticking to his own, and his claws tingled with the contact. He was never, ever supposed to be in a situation where he'd have to touch his own dead body.

He was almost grateful, to have the corpse pull easily away from the muddy tomb it had been crushed into, the weight light, a small cloud of flies buzzing into the air at the disturbance, but the sight of its dragging legs, of familiar clothing, shredded and ripped, of the lolling head that carried hair too similar to his and of the smashed face that was his own-

Wilson dropped it. A beefalo called suddenly, piercing and loud as a few of them turned blank stares towards him. A calf stumbled close for a second, wide eyed and wobbly on its young legs, and then it snorted and sprinted back to its parents, hiding under thick fur, kicking up a small spray of snow.

Wilson wheezed, trying not to look at the thing in front of him, trying to not think about it, crossing his own arms over his chest to hug himself, the puffs of his breath fading in the cold air. Closing his eyes, a roll of nausea in his gut, Wilson took a few steps back and collapsed into the snow, sitting in the cold for a moment. It seeped into his clothing, sharp and icy, but he had to take a rest, just for a moment, to calm down. The darkness behind his eyelids crawled about, buzzing black shades that hooked into him, and a headache was starting to form behind his eyes. He just needed to rest, just for a moment.

Another call from a nearby beefalo startled him, broken from his thoughts, and Wilson scrambled up, shivering and numb. He had no protective clothing, the last of it destroyed by beefalo hooves and horns, and this was only supposed to take a few minutes. Getting this back to his makeshift camp, back to where his bird was roosting, should not take very long.

The sudden noises from the herd, of snow kicked about and dull mumbles of sound, also made him realize he needed to move quicker. Herds don’t just stay in one area; they moved, to find better pastures, and they seemed interested in trudging their slow way towards where he was. If he didn’t get going, then Wilson would meet the same fate as the corpse in front of him.

Sucking in a breath of air, gathering everything he had, Wilson bent back over the corpse and grasped the thin wrists firmly, using the rest of his determination to tug it towards him. 

It was slow going, the light weight still hard to handle with his failing strength, but he was faster than the beefalo. The closer ones eyed him, shaking their large heads and snorting loudly, brandishing their horns, but he was well enough out of their range to keep them docile. The mud and snow track, peppered with streaked blood and gory left overs, was not something he wanted to look at, but it was better than looking down at his own pale face.

The sun was lowering behind the trees by the time he was back at camp, the air getting colder, his puffs of breath heavy with exhaustion. The sweat he had gathered, the heat generated from hard work, dissipated and degenerated to cold, shivers and tremors wracking his thin frame. His arms could not steady, claws numb and twitching every time he tried to breath warmth over them. The stone pit was full of ash, as cold as he was, and he was instantly trying to make a fire the second he had dropped the corpse. His former self had left saplings, large dead plants dug up earlier in the winter, and he used those and one of the few bits of flint he had left to start the fire, throwing bits of grass and twigs to encourage it. The smoke went up, unbothered by wind or breezes, and the fire slowly grew comfortable.

Wilson took the time to bring feeling back into his claws, the tremors still there but lessening as blood started to circulate again. The sharp pain from it was not welcome, but after a moment his fingers were functional once more, the warmth of the flames wonderful. Sighing, closing his eyes for a second, Wilson felt his stomach clench up, a low gurgle and pinch in his gut. That exertion took a lot out of him; he felt spent already.

Wilson looked up at sudden chirping, quiet but loud in the white silence. The red bird was there, watching him from its place in the trees branches, puffed up and shivering. It didn’t make its way down to the fire, instead observing him with beady black eyes. It make another twittering noise, shuffling its feet before settling. It must be hungry as well.

Wilson rubbed his face, careful to not prick himself with his claws. He really, really didn’t want to do this, but he had no choice.

This or death.

Breathing in slowly, letting the air escape out of his nose, Wilson gathered himself. Standing up from the fire, he made his way to the backpack he had placed down beforehand, before he had made his way to the beefalo herds. Opening it, rummaging around for a moment, Wilson took out a few of the objects he would need.

A razor for cutting. Flat stones for placing things. Silk for cleaning. An axe to get through harder parts. And…a badly made shirt, worn out, torn, and dirtied, to cover the face.

Wilson stared down at the objects, stomach turning at what he would have to do. What he was going to do, what he would do to stay alive, to keep his bird alive.

This or death.

Another intake of air, of him steeling himself, gathering nerve and energy. He had to eat. The bird had to eat. He couldn’t be picky. He had to make do with what he could get, and this was all he had for now.

He would be of no use after this if he didn’t eat. He has already pushed himself beyond what he had thought he could endure; there was no other option, nothing else, no matter how much he thought or waited. The last plan failed; this one could not.

Gathering the supplies in trembling claws, holding them close to his body carefully, Wilson turned to his corpse.

He almost dropped everything at the stare it was giving him, half of its face bloodied and matted, destroyed completely. Tremors shook his body, his own eyes locked with glazed copies, and then he shook himself out of it, blinking quickly and looking away.

This or death.

Wilson set the supplies next to the corpse, the snow cold and biting, and kneeled down. The warmth from the fire behind him combatted the cold in front of him, snow seeping into his pants, but this was the best he could do. Taking the worn shirt, he carefully wrapped the crushed head up, blood seeping sluggishly through as he covered the face. Claws twitching, frowning and gritting his teeth, Wilson finally took the razor in hand and sucked in a deep breath.

The clothes went first, copies to the ones on his breathing body, and the razor cut through the torn, bloodied garments. Not too easily, the fabric tough, and Wilson trembled as he pushed the corpse onto its back and had to tear its shirt into strips. His breathing sped up, the bones in the chest broken and puncturing skin, ribs cracked apart, a gored hole in the right side, the smell dulled by the cold but still there. Of death and raw flesh.

It horrified him for a moment, leaning back with his head reeling, because damn it all, claws over his mouth and eyes wide. His stomach gurgled again, cringed inside him and throbbing, the headache heavy behind his eyes.

After a moment or two, breathing in hastily with his eyes closed, Wilson tightened his grip on the razor and leaned forward once more.

This or death.

With the shirt off, battered chest exposed, he could see things a little better. A glance to the head, a quick check on the shirt wrapping the face, keeping the corpses eyes off of him, Wilson took another deep breath.

He just had to do it. No more thinking it out; if he continued to do so, he didn’t think he could follow through.

Gritting his teeth, setting his jaw tight, Wilson took the razor and tried to remember everything, anything at all about the human body.

Slow, careful cuts on the chest. They bled sluggishly, but Wilson didn’t press hard; not yet, anyway. A Y shape, because he remembered that from dissections. To open the skin, peel it away and see the insides. It was harder than he had thought it would be, his own hands trembling and shaking so much that he made a few unnecessary cuts, sometimes a little too deep, but the shape came out mostly.

Another shaky breath, wheezing in the smell and coughing for a moment, and then he had to continue, trying to keep his mind blank, trying to keep his fast breathing under control, trying to focus.

This or death.

Wilson found his claws of use, peeling skin away, the razor helping when something caught. The broken bits didn’t help, made it harder, and his shaky hands made the razor cut through a few times, the blood cold and thick on the blade.

He really hadn't been dead all that long, only about an hour.. The cold temperature had worked quickly.

Now with the skin away, pulled back or hastily dropped into the snow in pieces, Wilson could see the insides.

The sight sent a shiver up his spine, pure terror and pain, because he knew what that had felt like. It had only been an hour or so since it had happened to him.

Broken ribs, fractured, twisted, shattered, punctured and mauled organs, broken and seeping blood, bleeding in the chest cavity and filling it. Lungs torn, heart hidden under the broken flesh, the rest a smashed mess that went lower, hidden because he hadn't cut that low yet, hadn't even pulled the trousers off yet-

And then suddenly it was too much, a heated wave of nausea and fear and panic, and Wilson scrambled back, almost into the fire pit. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around himself, staring at the corpse in front of him. He sat there, trembling with jittered, frantic thoughts, gibberish in his head for awhile, cold breath panted out and icy air pulled into his whole, undamaged lungs.

It took a moment to get back, to rein in his terror, to get control, and then Wilson scooted back up to the corpse, tremors in his arms and his legs feeling like jelly.

This or death.

Breathe in, hold the air for a second, expanded lungs and then deflated slowly, quieting of thoughts and the static buzzing of the darkness crawling in the shadows and peripheral vision, and then Wilson focused again.

Salvage any organs. Those were supposed to be healthy, right? The liver, and the heart, and…and…

His claws were wet, bloody as he tugged at the dead flesh. Even broken and torn he had to use the razor, slippery in his grip to help cut tendons and the like away. The stones he had, flat shards broken apart with a pick axe, were lying in the snow, clean and freezing to the touch. Placing the heart down, shivering as his claws pulled away from the cold organ, exactly the same to the one thudding hard in his chest, Wilson turned his attention back. The liver was easier, pulling away without too much resistance; only its color was normal, the organ smashed and hanging together by a few strings. The stomach wasn’t recognizable, and having not eaten for days had shrunken it, the crushed intestines covering everything else with fluid and blood and pulped flesh. He didn't know about the lungs, didn’t know if they were even edible, but it would be better than nothing, right?

Wilson couldn’t scoop up all of it, pieces sliding through his claws, goop congealed in the chest cavity, shards of bone hidden under red slime. Another shiver, tremor that made him loose his grip even more, but most if it made it to the stone slab. A glance towards the corpses head, a flash of paranoia for a second, and the covering was red and bleeding through but nothing else.

Leaning back, a shivery breath of cold air in his lungs, a spark because that red mess next to him was his lungs, was what he just filled up with air and then emptied, and-

Wilson shook his head, biting his tongue for a moment to bring painful clarity, not enough to draw blood. He had to focus.

This or death.

The cavity was not empty, more filled with sluggish fluids and membranes and chunks of broken flesh, bone and shards and cartilage, but he had taken out the important pieces, right?

Next was…

Wilson found the bundled silk next to him, tried to wipe off the traces of blood on his claws and sliming down his arms. While silk was a wonderful material and could make a great many things, including bandages, it had a harder time cleaning and soaking up fluids. It smeared, the gross feeling covering his arms and in between his claws, glimmering on the silk, and finally Wilson gave up. He was just going to get more bloody, why waste the silk?

Another breath of air, steeling of wavering nerves, and Wilson turned his attention to the ax at his side. It wasn’t new, was used to chop wood, but hopefully wasn’t too dull just yet. Shuffling back a little bit, taking a grip on the wrist of the corpses right arm, he stretched it out, straight and narrow. It was a quick note, to see the thinness and wasting away of muscle and no fat, but it was something. He needed everything he could get his claws on to survive.

Struggling up into a stand, the ax heavy in his hands and his legs numb and cold, Wilson took a careful step back, away from the fire and facing the arm. Another couple of breaths, tightening of his own muscles, and before he could think about it anymore Wilson had the ax raised and he swung downwards, pushing all his strength into the blow.

The sound was gruesome, the movement was gruesome, and it wasn’t a clean cut at all, slanted on the elbow, not even near the shoulder, and for a second Wilson was terrified that the wrapping about its head had slipped-

But no, it had only twitched, turned away from him now, still fully covered. There had been no splattering of blood from the arm, just a few droplets, and Wilson dropped the ax and hesitantly picked up the severed limb.

Blackened skin, almost scaly, just like his, and the claws here only missed two, the other three broken and disjointed, one of them halved and another hanging by a string of flesh. Another tremor, the sight disorientating because his claws were holding a third arm, a third broken hand, exactly like his, and the pain memory was sudden, startling, a heavy hoof on the hand and snorting rush of beastly anger, horns catching him and flinging him forward, the rush to the ground and the pounding of heavy bodies towards him-

He closed his eyes, grinded his teeth, and it was only a slight whimper, a painful twitch in his side, wobbling for a moment or two. Then it was passed, gone with faint hints of memory, and Wilson hissed out the heated breath in his lungs, claws tight onto the corpses arm. He carefully turned, set it down away from the fire and packed around snow, tried to ignore the shivery brightness of the slithery shadows in his vision, the things flickering about and blinking at him.

The sun had finally given up the ghost of its existence, a darkness surrounding his camp. The fire itself was still cheerful, not low just yet, crackling strongly.

A growl from his stomach, twinge of hungry pain, and he was almost done. Almost done.

Turning back to the corpse, leaning down to grab the ax once more, Wilson moved around it to the other arm. The head was towards him now, but still covered, still hidden away. It wasn’t looking at him, no matter how much he could feel the gaze.

This time was easier, breaking the humerus into two, still no flow of blood, and yet the twitch of the body still startled him, jumping from it as the head wobbled, dropping the ax. Taking a second, deep breaths of air that quickly sped up the longer he stared, Wilson again took the arm, the joint loose and cut ragged. Placing that next to the other part of the pair, Wilson rocked on his heels, thinking for a moment.

His hands twitched, and his face felt wrong, taunt and stretched, but the slithery hands on the ground drew his attention away and Wilson found himself rushing forward, leaping on top of them, one at a time. They glazed out, the stomp hard on the snow and dry grass, and Wilson felt a wild flutter of wanting to chase them, take a torch and take off after them, stomp them again.

But he didn’t. He wobbled, unsteady and jittery, the fire light almost too bright, staring into one of the pupiless eyes that blinked out at him from the darkness. They hitched in the corners, curved into some expression or another, milky white and pulsing, and Wilson suddenly remembered his other, very much dead body.

He still had to finish the job, right?

That thought was a cold shock, a shiver and Wilson rubbed at his face, remembering his claws at the last second, gently pushing at his closed eyes and pulling his claws through his dirty hair, unknowingly streaking half dried blood through it. Just a little longer. His stomach cramped at the thought, a thick feeling settling in his throat and a hard knot in his gut. Just a little longer.

Slowly, hesitantly, discomfort filling his chest, Wilson stumbled back over to the cold corpse. Face still shrouded, though its piercing glare was still there, still looking at him. 

He was looking at himself, both ways.

That thought was unbidden, random, and maybe for a second he couldn’t help the stressed laugh that escaped him, but then he focused his thoughts. Wilson needed to do the legs next.

That meant…he needed to get rid of the trousers, right? Or could he just…chop right through? Would that work?

Wilson did not want to manhandle his own corpse. That sent a sickening revulsion through him, nausea from either hunger or his own thoughts, he didn’t know, but it settled into him. He was just going to try and cut through.

He will not touch himself, not even his own dead body, not even to cut away limbs in a better way. Not now, not here, especially not with those things watching him. He didn’t care if he ruined anything or left anything on the corpse afterwards; Wilson was not going to take the trousers off.

Slowly, carefully, Wilson got a hold onto the ax once more. The shivers, from the cold and his own tremors, were making gripping it hard, but he held tight, aligning himself as best he could with one of the legs. He steeled himself, stiffened his muscles, and then, raising the ax, Wilson swung downwards as hard as he could.

The feeling of it hitting, resistance suddenly, scraping and a thunk of flesh and metal and bone. It off balanced Wilson, almost made him fall over, loosened his grip on the ax and letting go. The tool stayed put.

Another few startled breaths, blank confusion for a moment before Wilson realized that he should try again. The femur was supposed to be the longest bone in the body, so would that make it harder to break? Or was he just that weak?

Pulling the ax out was hard, having to resort to wiggling the blade, jerking the armless body about for a moment, sickening nausea swirling in his throat before swallowing it back down. Wilson raised it again, to try again. He found that three more hits sufficed, swings as heavy as he could make them, and then the bone finally gave out, tearing fabric and flesh.

He had to take a short rest afterwards, deep swallowing breaths, resting on the handle of the ax. He tried not to look out into the darkness, instead focusing on to his fire. He'd soon have to throw something else into it, to keep the light going.

The other leg took a shorter amount of time, Wilson finding that aiming at the knee helped significantly.

So…now he had a limbless torso in his camp. His limbless torso, to be more exact. 

Was he getting desensitized? All that packed fear, terror, horror; did the stress finally get too much and normalize the fact that two of him was in camp at the moment, the only differences being that he was alive and had all his limbs attached? 

Frowning, a sick feeling in his gut, Wilson realized that he still had one last thing to do before this was really all over.

Stumbling over to the fire, the light low and dulled, Wilson gathered up another sapling. Tossing that in, along with a few bits of grass for extra starter, he stared into the flames for a moment, lulled by the oranges and yellows, the slight blues and greens down in the pit of stone. The bloody hunk of meat behind him, the gaze drilling into his back, seeping in and staining his thoughts, a mixture of dulled pain and relief that steeped slowly in his mind, itched and crawled about. The headache was still there, not blinding but sore, and it pulsed gently behind his eyes, the calm in the eye of the storm.

Wilson stayed like that for awhile, kneeled in front of the fire and relaxing slowly, shoulders loosing their tenseness, and then the cramp in his stomach and gurgling growl emerging from his gut woke him up.

He still had to finish this up.

Straining to his feet, balance off kilter and legs blindingly numb, Wilson scooped up the stone slabs. The organs settled on them were congealed messes, thick chunky things, the seeping of left over blood completely stopped and chilled. Setting them down next to the fire, Wilson gathered up an especially big stick, thick with a pointed end.

Would this work then? Just…stick stuff on the end and hope for the best?

What did cooked human organs even taste like anyway?

What did his cooked organs taste like?

Another shiver skittered up his spine, hooked into his nerves, and, biting his lower lip, Wilson tried to stick his dead heart onto the pointy end of the stick. It stuck, the point pushing through with only a little resistance, a single glop of bloody slime rolling off into the snow. Wilson stared at it for a moment, envisioned it inside of him, beating and pushing blood throughout his whole body.

Then he stuck it into the fire.

It…actually took awhile. When he pulled it out, staring hard at it in the flickering light, he could see the color change, a change to gray from red and purple. It was striking, and his mind seemed curiously blank, though his stomach wasn't. The smell of it was…was…

Well, maybe not good per say, but…he was starving. It was normal to think gross things were good if one was starving, right? Better than nothing, right?

And when it looked kind of ready, steaming and a gray lump, slightly charred on one side, Wilson slowly pushed it onto another stone slab and stared at it. Debated, slow turns in his mind, because what was he to do? That was his heart, his own heart, it had been beating this morning, hadn't it? And he was…he was going to eat it?

Wilson took in a shaky breath, rubbing his eyes carefully, exhaustion and hunger weighing him down, stress still skittering in his muscles. The eyes outside, settled into the darkness, watched him closely, blinking slowly, waiting. For what, he didn’t know, but he could feel that cloud of heavy patience settled around him.

He didn’t like the feeling all that much.

Okay, he just had to do it. It was about as big as his fist, it was a gray lump, he could pretend it was something else, something he found somewhere, pretend it was maybe the heart of a beefalo or pigman, not his own bloody heart-

Wilson carefully picked up the organ, the heat of it warm in his claws. Steeling himself, a strengthening breath of air, and then-

Well…it wasn’t…bad.

That was all he could think about. It wasn’t bad.

Also, he was literally starving, and something clicked after a moment and then the moment was over.

The ringing in his ears was quite loud, his stomach turning, and by God Wilson had just eaten his own damn heart.

He had to curl up after a moment, head on his knees, jaw locked and teeth gritted tight, because he was not going to puke that up. No matter how bad that spike of nausea got, no matter the sudden cramping in his stomach, no matter what, and damn it he shouldn’t have done that, he really shouldn’t have done it-

It took a moment, riding out the wave of hazy pain and feeling of sickness, and then it eased away. Wilson pulled his head up, stared at the fire for awhile.

He was still hungry, still starved of nutrients and energy, and something like that – his own heart, he ate his own heart – wouldn’t just fix his body up instantly. He would need more to actually survive, and winter was a long season, so he needed enough to live through it and the beginnings of spring, or at least to the point where he found a better food source than…well, human flesh.

How much did he have then?

Probably enough, right? He didn’t think he could do this ever again, make himself ever try it again. No one should ever have to do this.

Really, no one should ever have the ability to come back from the dead.

Another wheezed breath, closing his eyes for a second before pulling himself up to an unsteady stand. His didn’t think he could eat anything else, nausea and gut wrenching aches already drilling into him, but he had to preserve everything else, make sure it wouldn’t go bad and thus put him back to square one.

He also should get something ready for the bird.

…maybe drying would work? Not the most time saving or, well, tastiest method, but that preserved fairly well, right?

When Wilson turned around, intending to just get started, to stop wasting time, the shadow startled him. Not his, though it could be scary enough; no, it was the tall one, emerging somewhere outside of the safety of his fire, withering head and narrowed, down turned eyes that locked onto his even though there were no pupils. It breathed on the ground, expanding and deflating slowly, still and patient.

Nothing happened, Wilson frozen because living shadows were dangerous things, painful things, but the figure did nothing. It just…waited.

After a moment, Wilson slowly moved, giving the thing a wide circle of space as he shuffled back. The eyes seemed to follow him, milky white and of the void, but it did not make a move. The air felt thicker, heavier than normal, but it wasn’t actually doing anything.

If it didn’t hurt him, then…he'd just ignore it. By far safer than trying to jump on it, because who knew how it worked and Wilson really, really didn’t want to die because of some rash idea or other. 

Another strained breath, anxious and uncomfortable, and then Wilson turned to what he had set aside earlier. He really had no clue on how to do what he wanted, but winging it seemed to be working out okay, and so far the results were looking good. Nothing had went wrong just yet, though he couldn’t exactly be telling the truth on if he was mentally okay.

Chopping up your own body and then eating it was detrimental to ones mental health, wasn’t it?

Shaking his head, trying to clear out the thoughts, Wilson shuffled over and picked up the limbs he had laid down earlier. Just arms, regular old, charred looking clawed arms, once part of him and now very dead.

The sight sent a shiver up his spine, because this was just so very odd, not as terrifying as before but more…uncomfortable. These were his, and now he has chopped them off of his old body and was going to end up eating them.

That was not a thought he should be thinking, and should not be possible in any way whatsoever, but here he was.

Wilson trudged back up to the fire pit, picking up the forgotten razor in the snow, trying to not look or think about the limbs in his hands but also trying to figure out how exactly he was supposed to do this. He had never really done anything that involved limbs when it came to hunting other animals, more focused on feeding his bird bits and pieces than eating it himself.

His aversion to meat of any sort really wasn’t improved by having to eat his own heart. In fact, a part of him wondered if it would actually be better to just die from starvation than have to eat human flesh again.

But that would condemn the little red bird to death. And, unlike him, Wilson was sure that the creature could not come back to life.

That didn’t seem very fair, did it?

Slowly sitting down, crossing his legs under him, Wilson laid down the limbs and stared at them for a moment, the razor tight in his claws. Glancing behind him for a second, getting a glimpse of the long shadow watching him, of eyes in the darkness, Wilson decided to just…do it.

He knew bone structure, knew the radius and ulna were here and here, and the…skin was very resistant to the blade. Possibly because of the scaly covering.

A part of him realized that this would be a great opportunity to actually look at the structure in his claws, but…under these circumstances, with how stressed he was and how that shadow behind him was a looming presence, Wilson didn’t think this was a good time.

Maybe later, he thought, and then promptly berated himself. Not something he should be thinking about, and he shouldn’t even think of indulging in the fact that that he had an extra body of himself laying around, that he had opportunities to dig around and see how his body was really doing on the inside.

Especially since the body he had scavenged was quite damaged. Trampling, goring, blunt force trauma; it was not exactly something to use for science in any way. Not very reliable.

His work wasn’t clean, trying his hardest to stop the tremors in his claws, but finally he had something, bone and tendon and a pile of slivery flesh. The other limb was the same, abet with a few awkward differences in the elbow and the chopped in half humerus, and then Wilson was done with that.

Not that hard, actually, and he was most surely desensitized now, or maybe just in shock. Either way didn’t seem good, but at least he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore, panicked every time he had to touch parts of the body. Now he could actually get things done in good time.

The legs were…a little bit harder, and sort of jarring. The curdled feeling in his throat and gut wasn’t nice, a distraction maybe, and getting the ripped up trouser legs off was not what he enjoyed doing, but after that it was just like the arms. Still shaky, but pay attention to the bones and tendons and ligaments and then he was done.

He really didn’t like to look at the piles he's made, and the mess behind him was really, really heavy. Wilson knew its gaze was covered, that he wasn’t looking at himself in some weird, twisted undead way, but it still felt like it. It still felt like he was looking at himself from two angles.

He would have to get rid of it, before it attracted something horrible to his camp. Actually, he might have to move camp completely, which wouldn't be too hard since the only thing he had made was the fire pit.

Tomorrow then. He'd find a safer place to stay, away from things like the beefalo.

Using the silk from earlier, crusted with earlier blood but not too bad looking, Wilson did his best to wrap up the chunks he's cut up. The cold was preserving them for now, almost no blood leakage, and he tried his best to not look at anything too closely, try not to place muscles to his own arms and legs, tried not to focus too much on how his body moved and the things that he was packing away.

Sighing, placing the silk bundles into the snow to act as a preserver and moving over to the fire, away from the corpse behind him, Wilson pushed his claws through his hair. Sticky, and not that nice feeling, but an anchor for a second, of calm and stillness. The fire was calming, comforting and warm, and Wilson stared into it for awhile, dozing lightly.

The morning woke him up, light chirping close by. Lifting his head from his knees, feeling grosser than usual, Wilson watched as the red bird landed in the snow close by, lightly hopping for a moment and turning its head to stare at him. It twittered again, inching closer, and Wilson realized after a moment what it wanted.

Pushing the slabs of stone away from him, the bits and pieces of his own organs frozen to the rock, Wilson waited for the bird to feel comfortable, keeping still as hopped close to what it wanted. It twittered at him, a quick glance around, and then it made a beeline to the organs.

Not exactly comforting, knowing his semi friend would eat him in a heartbeat, but Wilson was too tired to care. He was hungry, still not feeling all that well, something heavy sitting in his gut, but he didn’t feel frantic or desperate anymore.

Heaving a sigh, rubbing his eyes carefully with the backs of his claws, Wilson really wished he hadn't had to resort to that.

Nobody should ever have to turn to eating their own corpse to survive.

But…it was going to be okay. It was done and over with, and he hopefully never had to do it again.

He was going to survive. Everything was okay.

**Author's Note:**

> (Hint: Everything is not okay.)


End file.
